Jennings was cool.
He was also popular—well, at least with all the other unpopular kids, who, come to think of it, always outnumbered the popular kids anyhow. There could be only one star quarterback, one head cheerleader. There were tons of geeks, nerds, dorks, and dweebs. That was probably why they had so many names for being different.
All in all, September was a totally awesome month.
Then, in early October, Zipper got lonely.
41
Zipper stood on the couch, gazing out the window.
Watching Zack disappear. Again.
His tail wilted.
Where did his boy go every morning, five days in a row?
Was it more fun than staying home and throwing the squishy ball in the backyard?
More exciting than pretending they were on a safari?
More laughs than when all the other boys and girls came by the house and Zipper showed them his tricks?
Hey, where were all those other kids during the day?
Did they go to the same place Zack went?
If so, it must be a fun place.
Very fun.
More fun than the house without Zack.
Zipper sniffed.
Zack’s scent was easy to pick up, even though Judy was burning toast in the kitchen again and the neighbors had just mowed their lawn, because Zack was his extra-special person. Every dog has one. Zack was his.
Zipper tiptoed through the kitchen.
“Going out, Zip?” Judy said as his nails clacked crisply on the tile floor.
Zipper gave her a quick yap and a tail wag.
“Have fun,” she said. “Just don’t water my rosebushes for me.”
He gave her another yap, this one signaling he understood where the approved rest areas were located in the backyard. He stepped through the flapping doggy door.
Judy and George had taught him not to stray beyond the backyard when he went out to do his business. Not to bother the neighbors or venture into the street.
But that had been before Zack started disappearing every morning.
Zipper sniffed twice.
Zack’s scent was in the wind.
All Zipper had to do was follow it.
So he did.
42
Eddie strode into the main entrance of the school and found Assistant Principal Crumpler’s office, just like the boss had told him to.
It was upstairs in the building that had once been Horace P. Pettimore’s mansion.
He rapped his knuckles on the bald man’s half-open door.
“What?”
“I’m your new janitor, sir.”
“Humph. How long do you plan to stay on the job? A day?”
“As long as you need me, sir.”
“Humph.” Mr. Crumpler stood up from his desk and clipped a walkie-talkie to his belt, muttering the whole time: “Lousy board of education. Think I should unclog my own toilets … cafeteria tray washer flooding … lima beans on the floor … sloppy joes …”
That was enough to get them out the door and headed down the sweeping staircase to the main hall.
“Do I have an office?” Eddie asked.
“You don’t need an office! You need a mop! A bucket!”
“Yes, sir.”
Eddie was wearing a green shirt over green work pants and had a ring of keys clipped to his belt. He looked very janitorial. The boss wanted him at the school because that was where they had the best chance of finding the special child the spirit of John Lee Cooper had spoken of through the medium.
Eddie and Crumpler reached the grand foyer.
“Mighty fine oil painting,” said Eddie, admiring the large portrait of Horace Pettimore in its gilded frame.
The bald man propped his hands on his hips and sized Eddie up.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“That why you talk like you have molasses in your mouth?”
“I suppose so. I hail from Chattanooga, Tennessee, which, coincidentally, is very close to the Georgia border.”
“So?”
“Just makin’ small talk.”
“Well, knock it off! You’ve got work to do!”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Crumpler.”
Eddie wouldn’t say another word.
He wouldn’t point out that he came from a city extremely close to the Georgia home of Patrick J. Cooper, the hero teacher who had died in this very school,
He was also popular—well, at least with all the other unpopular kids, who, come to think of it, always outnumbered the popular kids anyhow. There could be only one star quarterback, one head cheerleader. There were tons of geeks, nerds, dorks, and dweebs. That was probably why they had so many names for being different.
All in all, September was a totally awesome month.
Then, in early October, Zipper got lonely.
41
Zipper stood on the couch, gazing out the window.
Watching Zack disappear. Again.
His tail wilted.
Where did his boy go every morning, five days in a row?
Was it more fun than staying home and throwing the squishy ball in the backyard?
More exciting than pretending they were on a safari?
More laughs than when all the other boys and girls came by the house and Zipper showed them his tricks?
Hey, where were all those other kids during the day?
Did they go to the same place Zack went?
If so, it must be a fun place.
Very fun.
More fun than the house without Zack.
Zipper sniffed.
Zack’s scent was easy to pick up, even though Judy was burning toast in the kitchen again and the neighbors had just mowed their lawn, because Zack was his extra-special person. Every dog has one. Zack was his.
Zipper tiptoed through the kitchen.
“Going out, Zip?” Judy said as his nails clacked crisply on the tile floor.
Zipper gave her a quick yap and a tail wag.
“Have fun,” she said. “Just don’t water my rosebushes for me.”
He gave her another yap, this one signaling he understood where the approved rest areas were located in the backyard. He stepped through the flapping doggy door.
Judy and George had taught him not to stray beyond the backyard when he went out to do his business. Not to bother the neighbors or venture into the street.
But that had been before Zack started disappearing every morning.
Zipper sniffed twice.
Zack’s scent was in the wind.
All Zipper had to do was follow it.
So he did.
42
Eddie strode into the main entrance of the school and found Assistant Principal Crumpler’s office, just like the boss had told him to.
It was upstairs in the building that had once been Horace P. Pettimore’s mansion.
He rapped his knuckles on the bald man’s half-open door.
“What?”
“I’m your new janitor, sir.”
“Humph. How long do you plan to stay on the job? A day?”
“As long as you need me, sir.”
“Humph.” Mr. Crumpler stood up from his desk and clipped a walkie-talkie to his belt, muttering the whole time: “Lousy board of education. Think I should unclog my own toilets … cafeteria tray washer flooding … lima beans on the floor … sloppy joes …”
That was enough to get them out the door and headed down the sweeping staircase to the main hall.
“Do I have an office?” Eddie asked.
“You don’t need an office! You need a mop! A bucket!”
“Yes, sir.”
Eddie was wearing a green shirt over green work pants and had a ring of keys clipped to his belt. He looked very janitorial. The boss wanted him at the school because that was where they had the best chance of finding the special child the spirit of John Lee Cooper had spoken of through the medium.
Eddie and Crumpler reached the grand foyer.
“Mighty fine oil painting,” said Eddie, admiring the large portrait of Horace Pettimore in its gilded frame.
The bald man propped his hands on his hips and sized Eddie up.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“That why you talk like you have molasses in your mouth?”
“I suppose so. I hail from Chattanooga, Tennessee, which, coincidentally, is very close to the Georgia border.”
“So?”
“Just makin’ small talk.”
“Well, knock it off! You’ve got work to do!”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Crumpler.”
Eddie wouldn’t say another word.
He wouldn’t point out that he came from a city extremely close to the Georgia home of Patrick J. Cooper, the hero teacher who had died in this very school,
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